


Day Fourteen: "I didn't mean it."

by OBlossom



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: FebuWhump2021, Hurt/Comfort, IronDad and SpiderSon, Protective Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers is clueless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBlossom/pseuds/OBlossom
Summary: In the end, it was Captain Marvel who wielded the gauntlet.Carol, in her infinite awesomeness had snatched the gauntlet from Peter’s hands and snapped. That simple action had taken an intergalactic madman, the likes of which you’d only see in a superhero movie, and turned him and all of his minions to dust.It would have been the perfect end to the battle except for the fact that they’d all been standing too close to the concussive blast of the infinity stones righting the universe.And even that would have been okay, if not for the rubble that they’d fought upon... and the pieces of rebar that had pierced Mr. Stark’s lung and shoulder.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138958
Comments: 3
Kudos: 82
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Day Fourteen: "I didn't mean it."

**Author's Note:**

> I think I love writing Sam Wilson and Peter Parker...
> 
> Just sayin'.
> 
> -Colleen xo

Day 14: “I didn’t mean it.”

In the end, it was Captain Marvel who wielded the gauntlet. 

Carol, in her infinite awesomeness had snatched the gauntlet from Peter’s hands and snapped. That simple action had taken an intergalactic madman, the likes of which you’d only see in a superhero movie, and turned him and all of his minions to dust.

It would have been the perfect end to the battle except for the fact that they’d all been standing too close to the concussive blast of the infinity stones righting the universe.

And even that would have been okay, if not for the rubble that they’d fought upon... and the pieces of rebar that had pierced Mr. Stark’s lung and shoulder.

Peter had pulled himself up from where he’d landed and rushed towards his mentor, ignoring his own injuries, and not knowing what he would find. When he saw that the man was in obvious pain and afraid, Peter knelt before him, “Mr. Stark! We did it!” he announced. He opened his mouth to say more, but was pulled aside by Thor to make room for Ms. Potts and Mr. War Machine, which was okay because of course they’d want to be with him and he was just... well. 

Instead, Peter stepped even further back, watched, and waited alone on the periphery.

Peter was starting to feel pretty nauseous even as he tried to tamp it down. The cacophony of activity and sound around Mr. Stark was too much—the whispered chatter about the now diagnosed concussion from impact, the strangled gasping for breath, the panic of trying to keep Tony awake, the sluggish pulsing of blood from his wounds... and the gradually slowing beat of Mr. Stark’s heart.

Please no.

A circle of fire, like the one Doctor Strange had used on Titan and to get them back to the battle appeared and the man himself walked through. He threw his fire circle to envelop Tony and those closest to him, and in a literal flash, they were gone.

Peter stood there staring at the spot they’d only just occupied and hoped that they’d get Mr. Stark to help on time. If anything happened to him, when Peter had already blown it back on Titan? Well-- He didn’t know what he would do.

It was a few minutes before someone approached him there, not that he’d noticed, trapped in his own thoughts.

“Hey, um, Peter, right?” Captain America walked up to him slowly. 

He blinked, Peter, and realized he was being spoken to—and that his mask was still clutched in his hand. 

Oh.

He looked all around him, and noted that he was surrounded by several Rogue Avengers—but... were they still rogue? Did it even matter now?

Peter cleared his throat. He figured he needed to answer before it got any weirder, “Yeah. That’s me.” He cocked his head in sudden confusion, ignoring the pain when he moved it. He needed to know, “How do you know my name?” Mr. Stark had been so adamant that the Rogues not know who he was.

The others seemed to get his discomfort, so they all spread out, picking through the debris.

Captain America just smiled gently, “You’re Peter Parker, A.K.A. Spider-Man. You were one of The Lost.“ Captain America paused to let him take that part in.

“Lost?”

Captain America nodded. “Thanos snapped five years ago and half the universe disappeared. We were stuck for a while on how to make things right,” Captain America pulled back his cowl and scrubbed at his hair, “But we finally got there with a fresh perspective.” He pointed to the guy that had done the small-big thing at the airport in Germany. “And then Tony just needed that last push to get us over the finish line.”

Captain America didn’t add anything to that, but the thought felt unfinished so Peter asked. “Um, the last push?”

Captain America smiled again, “You haven’t figured it out? Peter—that last push was you. Tony was a shell of himself. He tried so hard to pretend that he could be happy with stepping back, but he hid away.” He stepped closer to Peter, “He hid away until he realized he could get you back and then risked everything to do it.” He paused. “So, yeah, all of this,” he waved a useless hand around him, “is because of you.”

Him? Peter took that moment to take in the devastation they stood in the midst of. There was no distraction of battle, just fire and smoke and dust and ash settling upon the bodies—Peter gasped. There were bodies scattered across the battlefield. It didn’t matter where he looked, he could see them, human and alien alike. 

And as he saw them, he thought of Mr. Stark. Was he dead, too? Had Peter played a part in the death of another person he cared for?

How could he ever redeem himself?

Before he could even process the magnitude of that impossible task, Captain America was leading him away from the carnage and toward one of the fire rings being generated—by monks? It was getting to be too much so Peter closed his eyes and trusted Captain America to lead him wherever he needed to be.

A wash of warmth overwhelmed and distracted him from his dark thoughts. He opened his eyes to see an open field of green with rings opening and closing all over the place, leaving Peter confused as he tried to figure things out. “Where are we?” he asked as he spun around. “I don’t—“ Peter stared up at the unfamiliar sky and his heart raced. “Please,” he whispered. “I can’t—“ he choked out. The idea of another battle on another planet so soon... too soon! But it was his fault and if he needed—needed to... His chest tightened and he couldn’t catch his breath. “Capt—“ he wheezed.

Apparently Captain America knew what Peter was struggling with immediately and stepped in front of him. “Hey, hey! Peter. You’re okay, son.” He grabbed at the scruff of Peter’s neck and tried to squeeze in an effort to ground him—which would have maybe worked if Captain America hadn’t pulled his hand away to see the fresh blood that no one had noticed because Peter had really needed a haircut for the last FIVE years. 

Peter’s brain chose that moment to ignore all outside attempts at help. 

The wizard had said it had been five years and Peter hadn’t believed him.

And then Peter was fighting aliens with Mr. Stark who wasn’t stabbed and bleeding to death on an orange planet somewhere out wherever...

And Mr. Stark was holding him, trying to keep him together, but it was hopeless and he’d been so afraid because it hurt and took so long.

Captain America had said it had been five years and Peter thought maybe the wizard was right...

—Because then Mr. Stark really was impaled and bleeding to death there on Earth and maybe he was dead like all the bodies back on that field while Peter wondered what planet he was even on.

He must have had some sort of tell, because Peter could barely make out the desperate shouting of Captain America for ‘Sam!’ before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he was gone.

* * * * * *

Peter wasn’t awake to hear the laundry list of injuries he’d accumulated during his time on Titan and in Upstate New York. 

He wasn’t awake for the stitches and he even slept through the insertion of an IV to keep him hydrated after his unconscious state reached the three hour mark.

Oddly enough, he was awake enough to hear the conversation between Ms. Potts and the doctor on the other side of the hallway as he lay in his bed, thank you very much, super hearing.

“... so yes, Mrs. Stark, the concussion will resolve in a week at the most, but even with physiotherapy, there is still a risk that the damage to his left arm is irreversible.” Peter guessed that it was a doctor who had spoken.

“You haven’t met him, he’ll be up and on the mend in no time.” Ms. Potts spoke—er, Mrs. Stark, he meant, spoke with assurance. 

Peter’s heart dropped. Mr. Stark lived for working with his hands and the thought that he couldn’t...

No. Peter would find a way to make it right for Mr. Stark, and he would find a way to atone for his role in all of that death. Now.

His plan was to get out of this med bay and figure out where he was. Only then could he figure out how to get where he needed to go. Simple right?

The move from lying to sitting was not complicated in theory, but near impossible in execution. His left arm was trapped in a weird sling that limited not just the arm, but his shoulder and ribs movement as well. What should have been easy suddenly involved more muscles than his body was willing to allow. 

But that might have been the painkillers.

Peter noted the IV in his right arm as soon as he recognized the haziness in his thought process. With his left arm completely out of commission, Peter needed to use the tools at hand, which is why he decided using his teeth to rip the offending bringer of painkillers from his body was the best course of action. He needed a clear mind. 

Someone walked past the door to his room, so Peter feigned sleep and slipped his now bleeding hand underneath himself. He needed to get out, and if doing so meant he had to play the waiting game, then so be it.

Then Peter fell back to sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he was certain that he’d have no problem staying awake now that the painkillers were leaving his system. The pain was barely manageable. It didn’t matter, though.

He dragged his arm out from beneath him, shaking it awake as he tried again to get up from the bed, and failing again. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard!

The pain was getting worse, of course. What did he expect? But then desperation got the better of him. He was already suffering. Why was he allowing it to stop him from accomplishing his goal? It was totally a mind over matter thing. Right?

With no second thoughts and a burst of strength, Peter grabbed the edge of the bed and pulled himself up, stifling a scream as he twisted to swing his legs off the bed. Black spots danced before his eyes and he swayed where he sat but sheer stubbornness kept him from toppling to the ground.

He thought he’d heard some movement in the hallway outside of his room, but couldn’t do anything more than freeze and hope for the best.

No one entered.

Finally, he started to feel a little steadier. Yes, he still hurt, but he had his spider-healing. He’d be fine. He could push through it. He’d done it before. He had work to do and it wasn’t gonna get done if he was sitting on this butt doing nothing. He owed everyone that much.

Again, no second thoughts, Peter pushed forward, planting his feet on the ground.

He was really starting to hate the black spots.

They cleared up faster this time, which was good, and with a steadiness allowed only through the use of sticky fingers and a snail’s pace, he made it to the hallway.

He just needed to make his way—

A throat cleared. “It was a real pain getting you into that bed in the first place, Mr. Glue Hand. You’d sure as hell better have a good reason for being out of it.”

Peter froze.

Falcon stood up from the chair outside of his room, and stepped in front of him. “Well, kid? Care to share with the class?”

Another person stepped into the hallway. “Peter? Honey, what are you up for? You should be in bed!” Ms. Potts—shoot! Mrs. Stark rushed forward, Peter knew, to usher him back, but the idea of her helping him when he’d messed up so big? It was too much. 

He quickly stepped back and out of her grasp, not thinking that he’d let go of his support to do so. The black spots reappeared, and Peter knew no more.

* * * * * *

The next time his eyes opened, Peter was not alone. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid.”

Falcon.

Peter turned his head carefully and blinked, trying to clear his head. If he’d thought he was muzzy before, this was a whole other level.

Falcon leaned forward in the chair he was sat in, seemingly analyzing the boy in the bed. “How are you feeling?”

He took a deep breath, willing the clean air to help him focus. “I’m good,” he muttered. If he could convince them maybe he could go and get down to work.

“Kid, the doctors have final say on when you leave that bed... but I want to know, what kind of work are you talking about?” Falcon asked.

Peter blinked again. Falcon could read minds?

He smirked. “You bumped your shoulder again on the way down, Peter. The doctors upped your pain meds due to the re-injury and the fact that you burned through them so fast the last time.” He ruffled Peter’s hair and leaned back in his seat. “And I’m not a mind reader. You just think really loud.”

Peter thought about that for a second, or tried to, but was interrupted.

“You didn’t answer me, kid. What kind of work do you need to do so bad that you’re climbing out of bed while dosed to the gills on drugs?”

Peter stared at Falcon while trying to think quiet. He couldn’t know that this was all his fault and that he had to... had to... had...

“What do you have to do, Peter?”

“Dammit! Was I thinking loud again?” 

Falcon smiled a little softer. “Sorry, bud, you were.”

“Dammit.” He closed his eyes in embarrassment—until Peter ever so unintentionally turned that into a doze. When he woke up, though, Falcon was still there, playing on a tablet. It was almost like they were afraid to leave him alone or something. 

“How long was asleep this time?” Peter wanted to know as he ran his hand down his face.

Falcon put down the tablet and looked at his watch, “Maybe an hour and a half.” 

He needed to come up with another plan, some way to get Falcon out of his way so he could sneak out and start making up for every screw up he’d made since—“ 

“C’mon kid. You may not be as entertaining as the last time you were up, but I can still see it on your face. I know the first time we met, we were beating the shit out of each other, but we’re not there now and you look like a man with a lot on his mind.”

Peter thought about it. Falcon had proven that he was a man that did what he thought was right, rules be damned. Maybe he’d understand why Peter had to go. “Mr. Falcon, sir,” Peter started.

He snorted, “Kid, just call me Sam, please.”

Peter nodded. “Mr. Sam, sir, I have to get back out there. I have to go and fix what I can. It’s my fault that—”

“Stop.” Sam interrupted, suddenly looking upset. “Is that what this is about?” He started gesturing about the room. “By the way, the whole prison break thing and all that— that was just gruesome when we got you back in here, kid. There’s a reason they have nurses take IVs out. Seriously, it was like a slasher movie in here and you didn’t even notice!”

Peter felt his face flush and turned it away. “Sorry, Mr. Sam, sir.”

“No, no, no. No looking away. I need you to tell me why you think the actions of that purple ballsack are somehow your fault.”

Peter did look back, quite surprised to see how focussed the man looked. That is what made Peter realize there’d be no getting out of it. “It’s just that Mr. Stark got hurt because of me.” He spoke quiet and low, but Sam listened. “First on Titan when I couldn’t get the glove off of Thanos...” Peter’s chin quivered, but he fought the urge to cry and kept going. “And then when Captain America said that all of this was my fault, I realized that I have to—“ 

“Stop.” Again Sam interrupted and sought clarification. “When did Steve say that?”

“Um, on the field after...” A few tears escaped. “After they took him away—“ He swiped the tears away. “And now his arm is all messed up and I know it’s gotta be killing him that he may never build with it again and I have to make it up to him somehow...” he trailed off and thought for a moment. “I have to be better.”

Sam stood up, gestured to Peter to wait, and walked to the door of Peter’s room, looking out into the hallway, first left and then right. Finding who he was hunting for, he hollered, “Yo,’ Cap, get your ass in here!” then stalked back to his seat.

Captain America appeared almost immediately. He smiled at Peter when he saw him lying in the bed, “Hey there, son. How are you?”

Peter gave a weak, wobbly half-smile in return and opened his mouth to answer. 

“Nope. No pleasantries until we clear something up.” Sam butted in again. “Can you tell me what you said on the field, after everything was over? ‘Cause I think we have a miscommunication here.”

Appearing to be confused, Captain America obliged, “Sure? I think I told Peter that he was the reason for us finally having the ability and in Tony’s case, the motivation to fight Thanos and win.”

Peter was still feeling foggy, but that wasn’t what he’d said. “You said I was the reason for...” he lifted his hand in an attempt to replicate what Captain America had done, “for all of that.” His attempt at staying calm was failing. “There were so many bodies and...” 

Captain America’s eyes were wide with horror. “Peter,” he stepped toward the boy’s bed, “I swear to you, I didn’t mean it—not like that! We brought back half a universe and none of that would have happened without you. Clint is currently on hour two of a phone call with his wife and kids. We can hear the birds singing again!”

Peter fought back, “And Mr. Stark’s arm is damaged to the point where he may never use it the same way again!”

Sam and Captain America looked at each other, confused. “Peter,” Captain America finally said, “Tony’s arm is going to be fine. Why do you think Tony can’t use it?”

Peter refused to be pandered to. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Captain America, sir. I heard the doctor talking to Ms. Potts.” He realized his error after the fact. “Argh! Mrs. Stark! Whatever! I heard them. He has a concussion and left arm injury that may be permanently damaged!” He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He could tell that his being upset was not helping his situation, and the drugs they were pumping into him were making him feel a little nauseous again.

Sam stepped closer now, “Peter, did a doctor come in to talk to you at all today?”

Peter hesitated before answering. “Why?”

“Peter,” Sam spoke softly. “Those are your injuries. Tony’s arm is hurt because of the rebar, but the repair has been done. Heck, he’s even been awake and talking to Pepper and the rest of us.” He ruffled Peter’s hair again, “Kid, you’re the one they’ve all been talking about.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Peter, I was outside your room waiting for you to wake up so I could talk to you about physiotherapy when you decided to fly the coop. We’d obviously have a professional with us, but Tony and Pepper thought Rhodey and I would be a good support ‘cause Tony will be a pain in the ass if we let him in and he knows it.”

Peter took another look at the sling he was sporting. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” 

No one said anything for a bit until Sam piped up, “So the Wakandans—“

“We’re in Wakanda?” Peter called out. “In Africa?”

Sam turned and glared at Captain America, “Did you do anything right with this kid, Steve? Seriously?”

Captain America looked bashful. “Sorry about that, Peter.”

Peter waved it off. “At least I know now,” he replied.

“Well, like I was saying,” he went on, “The Wakandans are hoping you and Tony will be okay to travel in the next day or two so we’re gonna plan for that if you’re cool. Cool?”

Peter nodded.

Captain America stood up, “If that’s settled, I’m going to let Pepper know so that we can start making arrangements.” He stared down at the kid, “I’ll come and visit again tomorrow, if I can get out of my meetings, okay?”

He guessed the life of a super hero never stopped, so he answered with an “Okay,” and Captain America was out the door.

Peter cleared his throat, feeling awkward. “Thanks for sorting that out... I feel kinda’ stupid about the whole thing now that I think about it.” 

Sam seated himself. “Steve was communicating with a kid who was injured, terrified, and obviously in shock. The man is both a dorito and a dumbass,” then Sam shrugged. “But what can you do?”

Peter chuckled, “Doesn’t matter. I still ‘preciate it.” 

Yup, Sam could definitely tell that he was tired. “Look kid, you get some sleep, alright? And when you wake up, we’ll make sure you’re filled in on everything.”

Peter nodded. “’kay.”

Sam stared at the boy for a second and then added, “And I’m gonna talk to you about some things, too, ‘kay? Because you’ve got some heavy guilt shit to work on and good people don’t deserve that.” Sam laughed at a thought, and added, “... and anyone who calls someone ‘sir’ as often as you do must be a really good person!”

Peter stared back and said nothing.

“And you may be a good person, Peter, but that will not stop me from kicking your ass in physio, got it?”

“Got it.” Peter smiled as he whispered, then closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> confession. I'm tired but committed to getting these out. I THINK it makes sense, but things may be different in the cold light of day.
> 
> Day fourteen done.


End file.
